


That One Girl

by orphan_account



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fifteen year old girl is murdered, and Owen overthinks things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That One Girl

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished watching Out Of Time and I was bored so I decided to make myself cry and put Sensitive Owen into a story. Don't know why, but I feel like he'd like kids -- not saying he'd be good with them, but he'd like them.

She was fifteen.  American.  Moved to Cardiff with her mother and her twelve year old brother.  Her dad moved with them but lived in a separate flat.  She was attending Cardiff High School until they could find a better place for her to go.  Her name was Grace.  She carried a blue leather cross-body purse with an iPod, a pencil bag, a water bottle, a journal, and a wallet.  The wallet had five American dollars and ten pounds.  There was also a picture of her and a friend in it -- the words  _Grace and Noah, Memorial Day 2013_ scrawled across the back.  They were both grinning and barefoot, although they were wearing coats.  Her journal was full of scribbled poems.  All of her pens were ballpoint and the ends had been chewed.  Her iPod lock code was 1836.  The iPod was full of pictures of other friends, all with captions.  Lucas, Breanna, Laura, Lilly, Gabby, Mena, Audrey, Amanda, Max.  She had a cat, Casper, and two German Shepherds, Lucy and Remus.

She was so human.

Owen didn't usually take murder cases.  He normally left them to Gwen or Jack or Tosh.  But they were all too busy to take this one, and that left him.   _God_ , sometimes he hated his job.  

 _She had her whole life ahead of her._  He crouched next to the prone form on the pavement.  She was small, curled in on herself.  The bullet wound was right beneath her ribcage, above her navel.  She was pretty, he supposed, for a fifteen year old.  Her hair was curly and messy, layered.  It was a dark reddish-brown, almost mahogany.  She'd dyed it about three months ago and the dye was still washing out.  Her eyes were large, blue, and staring.  Her hands were small, covered in blood.  She wore a rhinestoned skull ring on the middle finger of her right hand.  

She didn't have a cell phone, but there were contacts on her iPod.  He called the number labeled "MOM'S CELL".

"Hello?"  The woman on the end of the line sounded hassled, but pleasant enough. 

"Hi, is this Ms. Campbell?" Owen asked, looking at the girl on the road.  

"Yes, why?"

"I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you, ma'am.  Your daughter's been the victim of a drive-by shooting."  There was a moment of silence, and then those words Owen was dreading.

"I . . . oh my god . . .  _oh my god._ "  

Owen didn't sleep that night.  All he could think about was that fifteen year old, Grace.  Finally he sat up, threw off the covers, and walked over to his desk.  Her iPod was in a plastic baggie in his backpack.

He turned it on.  The lock screen was a picture of two girls, one of them Grace, the other a petite brown-haired girl with glasses.  They were laughing.  He sighed and unlocked it, scrolling through the contacts.  Finally he picked a name -- Noah, since that was the name on the back of the photo -- and called the number.  A teenage boy picked up.  Owen could  _not_ get used to the American accent.

"Hello, this is Sam, how may I direct your call?"  The tone was ironic and bored.  God, just what he needed.  A comedian.  

"May I speak to Noah, please?  This is Owen Harper from Torchwood, I'm calling about a Grace Sleeman."  

"Yeah, give me a sec."  Owen waited for a bit.

"Hello?"  This voice sounded younger, if only by a little.

"Hi, is this Noah?"

"Yeah, why?"

"My name's Owen Harper, I'm from an organization called Torchwood.  I've got some rather bad news for you.  Your friend, Grace Sleeman.  She's been shot.  It was a drive-by shooting, and she . . . well, she didn't survive."  

"How do I know you're not lying?"

"Sorry?"

"How do I know you're not lying to me?"

"We found her purse.  She has an iPod touch fourth generation with a picture of her and another girl, with glasses, as the lock screen.  She keeps a purple notebook full of poems and she chews on the ends of her pens.  She has dyed red hair and it is almost the same color as her blood.  Still think I'm lying?"  Owen knew he'd been harsh, but he had watched this girl die as she clutched his hand and asked him to tell her friends and family she loved them.  She hadn't cried, but that pale terror was almost worse than tears.

"No.  I'm sorry.  I need . . . I need to think."  The connection clicked off.  Owen stared at his phone for a minute, then flipped it shut.  He needed to organize his thoughts.

He made a list of people that he needed to call about Grace, and notified them.  There were tears from some (a girl called Elaine was hardly legible by the end of the call) and there was quiet acceptance from others (another girl, Mena, stayed calm but ended the call quickly), but by far the worst was the silence he got when he called her best friend, Laura.  She didn't say anything for at least a minute, until he asked if she was okay.  Then he got a sigh and a sad "no" before she hung up the phone.  

Owen looked through her photos one more time, stopping on one particular shot of a short-haired, ginger Asian girl, Grace, and a girl with short brown hair.  They were all laughing and eating a cake (it had HAPPY BIRTHDAY ELOISE scrawled on it in green icing) and they just looked happy.

She was so human.


End file.
